Thirty Days Of Johnlock
by shxrlocked
Summary: I found a 30 Day OTP Challenge, so I have decided to write one-shots for each day and post them here. Day one: holding hands. Rated M just in case.
1. Holding Hands

_This is a 30 Day OTP Challenge I found on deviantart. Obviously my chosen OTP is Johnlock, so enjoy my 30 days of short one-shots!_

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**Day One: Holding Hands**_  
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John will wake from his dreams frequently feeling as though he is suffering from a nightmare. His heart burns with flames of grief, his stomach churns with the desire to vomit the pain away and his eyes burn; yearning for just one decent, dreamless night's sleep.

It has been six months since Sherlock…

He is still no better. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing makes sense. He can barely bring himself to get out of bed or eat a full meal, and Mrs Hudson is worried sick about him. Harry comes over sometimes but he doesn't respond to her.

He doesn't respond to anyone.

He still sleeps though. Badly, yes, but in his sleep Sherlock is still alive. The dream of which he sleeps for is repetitive; he has been experiencing it over and over since Sherlock…

It's of both of them the day before _it_ happened. They have just escaped the clutches of the brainwashed policemen (_cheers, Moriarty_) and are running through the night lit streets of London; sirens roar in the distance and the occasional flash of red-and-blue can be seen as they scour the streets in their cars, which mean that Sherlock and John _have_ to stay hidden in dirt-clad alleyways and vacant side-streets.

"Take my hand!"

And he does. He always does. Since when has Dr John Watson denied Sherlock Holmes of anything? In reality his hands were covered by those damned leather gloves he always wears, but in the state of dreaming his hands are bare. They feel warm in his own; full of something that has been vacant from John's life for too long. Hope. A promise of happiness and companionship; thrill and excitement. Everything John _wanted_ he found in Sherlock Holmes…

And then he wakes up.

His dreams are never nightmares, yet he wakes from them as though they are simply because that time – running handcuffed from the police with his only _real _friend – was the first time John Watson held Sherlock Holmes' hand.

And it was the last.

Whenever he wakes he feels sick with grief, _yes_, but the feeling of Sherlock's hand still lingers in his own. And that is why, despite the insomnia and overwhelming urge for emptiness, John Watson still allows himself just a few hours of sleep every night. For those precious moments - when Sherlock's hand is in his own - make the loneliness go away, even if it's for a little while…


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

_In reply to Shawna: thanks! I think they may be progressive, but I will state at the top of each chapter whether they are or not. _

This is one of the progressive chapters, dear readers! (aka it's following on from the last one)

enjoy!

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**Day Two: Cuddling Somewhere**

John would say that he was stuck in his dreams again, only this never happens in those. As said before, his dream was always the same. This is different.

For a start, his hand is _hurting_. That may or may not be due to the fact that he just punched the taller, lanky man standing in front of him. No, this is not a dream, and the man standing before him cannot be an imposter. Who else does he know with that Millford coat, those almost-black curls and those _eyes_.

His throat is sore from all of the shouting. He can't really remember what he said, only that it was very abusive and that he just admitted every tiny detail of his life without Sherlock throughout the past three years. Lonely, painful, monotonous, uneventful. Every single day dragged like nothing else.

And now he's just here. Just suddenly alive; after _everything_ that he has just put John through, Sherlock Holmes is _alive_.

"How could you?" He chokes, ignoring the burn of his coarse throat as he speaks.

"I have already explained everything, John." He growls whilst nursing his bleeding nose. "I know what I did was… Wrong… But I'm sorry. And I'm here now."

He's right. He is here now. John thinks back to his last three years of hell; back to all the pain and yearning. How many times has he sat in his bed begging for Sherlock to come back? How many times has he visited that grave and pleaded with Sherlock to come back to their flat, as safe and arrogant as always and _alive_.

The next thing he knows, John is crying. He doesn't know whether it's because he's still grieving, because he's infuriated; perhaps it's because of this new feeling. It's warm, it's overwhelming… It feels as though a huge weight is being lifted off his shoulders, and it's then that it hits him. The ex-army Doctor realizes that his best friend – the one that he thought he had lost three years ago – is standing in front of him once more. He's not dead.

John reaches for Sherlock's hand and presses a calloused thumb to his porcelain wrist. _Thump-thump, thump-thump_. He can feel it, very real and very _there_; the heartbeat that had ceased to exist three years ago. Or that he had thought to have ceased.

"Sherlock," He chokes. That's all he needs to say. Sherlock can tell from the raw sound of John's voice and from the very obvious tug of Sherlock in to his arms that this is John's relief. He welcomes it, literally, with open arms, consuming the Doctor with his long coat and taller physique. His pale, hollowed cheek rests against the top of John's head, and in that moment Sherlock finds he could not care less that John is holding on to him so tight that it feels as though his lungs are constricted; John finds that he doesn't give a damn what the people passing by on the street think. All that matters is John; and all that matters is Sherlock. And the warmth. And his arms. And his heartbeat, and his laughter. John finds he cannot help it; the relief is sending him delirious.

"Let's go back to the flat," Sherlock almost whispers.

"Not yet," John replies stubbornly. He's not quite ready to stop cuddling yet, though he is far too not-gay-for-Sherlock to admit that.


	3. Watching a Film

Doesn't really matter whether or not this is continuous; you can decide for yourselves :)

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**Day Three: Gaming/Watching a Film**

_{Sherlock POV}_

I am not the type of man to enjoy the trivialities of life, and that most certainly applies in reference to media consumption. Newspapers are full of fairy tales, television shows are about as thrilling as watching paint dry, and _films_…

So, when John suggests that we watch Harry Potter, because he 'cannot believe that I have never seen it', you can imagine how I responded. _Harry Potter_. Really, John? _God_, how I envy him sometimes; my mind is on a constant path for _more work_, _more, more, more_, whilst all he wants half of the time is to eat or sleep or read the morning paper! _Dull, boring, too placid!_ Even now, as he slides the disk in to the DVD player, the metaphorical cogs within my head are spinning out of control. I wonder if anyone has put anything on the website? Perhaps a client has attempted to get in touch through John's infuriatingly famous blog? What if there's an email sat unread in my inbox; a missed call from Lestrade flashing up on the screen of my phone, which is currently sat in my bedroom. How stupid of me. Why did I not bring it in with me? Why did I even bother _sleeping_ last night? I could always ask John to fetch it for me. But then he settles down beside me, and soon enough the film begins. I want my phone, but he looks so comfortable…

No. I'll collect it later. Or I'll ask Mrs Hudson if she visits.

John was wrong about this film. It's completely illogical and one-hundred per cent dull. Flying motorcycles? Enchanted ceilings? No, no, no.

"The candles, John!" I cannot help but growl, finally having enough of this complete insanity.

"What?" He asks, frowning at me. His brow furrows; obvious sign of confusion. The slightly dazed tint to his eyes shows he was quite immersed in the film and is yet to fully understand what I have just said, which is also backed up by the questioning way he spoke 'what'. Then there's the slight gnawing of his lower lip; nervousness. But why would he be nervous? What is there to be—

_Oh!_

Oh…

"I…" Alright, as much as it pains me I force my lips in to a smile. "They're floating."

"Yes, Sherlock," he rolls his eyes, "Because it's a school of _magic_. Of course they're floating."

"Yes, I was… Just, the computer generated imagery; very nicely done. I just wanted to point that out. Same with the ceiling; very good indeed."

John's no longer paying me any attention, thankfully, so I stop after that. God, he may not be a Consulting Detective but he will have most definitely seen through that. Really, my mind is _dying_ for something to think about yet, with one look, John can turn my thought pattern in to… _Normal_. And that's all I can think about for the rest of the film. How normal John makes me feel… How have I never noticed until now? I should have, considering the circumstances… Even now I find myself drifting off from each thought; something that I _never_ do.

"So," When I am finally snapped out of my John-filled thoughts the film has ended and John is watching me expectantly, "What did you think?"

"It was… Alright."

"Excellent," He beams, "Ready for the next?"

If it was anybody else I'd probably argue against it, but there's something about the way John's eyes do _something_ that makes me nod my head rather than shake it.

Damn my Doctor.


	4. On A Date

Oops, I didn't update yesterday. No worries, though. I'm putting up days 4 and 5 today.

This is still continuous. Enjoy!

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**Day Four: On A Date**

They're accidental, of course. Their dates. It always is with John and Sherlock. They'll slide in to cafés frequently whilst on their cases; but there are those rare occasions when John's stomach growls and Sherlock, as deductive and strangely understand as always, tells John that they're going to have dinner…

But this one isn't.

"Let's have dinner."

"Alright," John mutters distractedly, "Curry or Chinese?"

"There's an exquisite restaurant down the road that I have wanted to try for _ages_. Get your coat."

John sighs, pausing midway through his most recent blog entry.

"Sherlock… We can't go _out_ for dinner," The Consulting Detective frowns at his friend's words and stops halfway through sliding his arm in to his coat.

"Why not?"

"Because people will _talk_-"

"For God's sake, John," He says frustratedly; voice gradually getting louder with each word, "What does that _matter_? Why do you care so much about what other people think?"

"I don't, I just… You're famous, Sherlock. I don't…"

The truth is that John doesn't really want to tell Sherlock _why_ it bothers him; that people assume that they are gay together. But he also doesn't want to push Sherlock away, which is precisely what he is doing by refusing to be seen with him. They are just friends (of course) and John is happy to be just friends (_of course_), in fact that's all he wants from Sherlock. He doesn't want to be his boyfriend. Why is he even thinking about this, anyway?

"I only asked you out to dinner. I didn't ask you to start skipping down the street holding hands with me," Sherlock reminds him, pointedly watching the low-volume telly as though he is suddenly interested in the crappy TV show re-run currently plaguing the screen.

"Not that we've never done that before," John says, chuckling at the memory of them both running hand-in-hand away from the police. A small smile forms on the corners of Sherlock's lips, too.

"Is that a yes, then?"

John closes his laptop and stands, "Alright."

...

"_So_."

John looks up from his rather delicious meal to see that Sherlock is watching him with an almost confused expression; almost as though he is inwardly battling with himself. This is rather sudden, considering that just seconds ago they were laughing and joking about an incident with one of Moriarty's 'flies in his criminal web'. It's obvious that Sherlock has something to say, so rather than interrupt and cause him to backtrack in to his shell; John decides to keep his mouth shut.

"I was… Earlier…" Sherlock begins looking at anything but John as the sentence slowly grows, "You said you… You never finished that explanation."

"What explanation?"

"The one about the people talking…" He swallows slightly, "Talking about _us_. Being suspicious..."

"Does it matter?" John asks, throwing a careless smile on to his face to hide the sudden feeling of panic, "We're here now, and it's lovely."

"And no one has talked."

The conversation wavers away from that topic once more, after that, but this comment hits John deeper than Sherlock realizes. He feels terrible, and that feeling consumes him when they get home and he heads off to bed. Something in the way Sherlock was acting and the way he said that sentence… It was different. New. Something very foreign and something John Watson, or anyone for that matter, does not associate with the great Sherlock Holmes… And John doesn't know whether he wants to know what it was or run a mile.

Because he sort of knows, he just doesn't want to admit it yet…


	5. Kissing

**Day Five: Kissing**

"I'm glad we went tonight," John says whilst entering the kitchen. Sherlock has already started boiling the kettle and is now sat fighting off the urge to sleep on the sofa, so John finishes making their cups of tea. Five minutes later he is sat on the sofa staring at the screen; their mugs remain forgotten about as they watch the romantic scene between two characters off some soap that Sherlock cannot for the life of him find himself to care for. He is, however, slightly fascinated by the way that they treat one another. He remembers how Irene Adler had acted around him; how her heart rate accelerated and her pupils dilated…

It's an odd thought, to say the least. But he suddenly finds himself turning to look at John. His friend, who is slightly dazed due to his tired state, turns to him with a slightly confused expression. Without explaining, Sherlock pushes himself up in to a better sitting position – so his back isn't pressed against the sofa – and leans towards John, closing the distance between them until their noses are almost touching.

"What are you doing?" John gasps, jumping in shock and suddenly feeling very awake. Sherlock is staring intently in to his eyes, and as he feels his friend's cool hands lock around one of his wrists John finds his lungs constricting as the air fills with Sherlock's tobacco-and-coffee scent.

"Experiment," He says, voice deepening as he stares at John with a look he has never seen the Detective give anyone before. Sherlock is now more concerned, however, with his own body's reactions. His heart rate has also accelerated and a strange fluttering sensation is taking place in his stomach. Was his meal undercooked? He's not sure, but all he knows is that fluttering is settling; warming his stomach until it burns. He darts his tongue out to wet his lips, and as he notices John's eyes flicker down to watch he realizes exactly what these feelings mean.

"I want to kiss you," He whispers.

John's not all that tired anymore, but he'll blame it on his fatigue anyway. He's never felt like this about another man before, but something about Sherlock is just… Different, for a man. It's not that he's effeminate or anything, because he's not, so he can't blame it on anything like that… He's not gay, no. He is not gay. But Sherlock is a man, and he feels… _Something_… Yearning…

"Would that bother you?" He adds, and John feels something inside squirm at the look of panic in his friend's eyes.

"I… Oh, for _God's _sake!"

It's Sherlock's turn to be taken by surprise, now, as John has suddenly taken the hand Sherlock had been holding out of his grasp and places it on his cheek. Before Sherlock can say anything, John has closed the distance between them and now has his lips pressed against his. John feels his face burning, yet a huge smile is also threatening to tug at his lips. Maybe it's because he managed to elicit shock from the genius sat before him, but that would be a complete lie. Pride at shocking his friend wouldn't give him this euphoric feeling. No, this is something much deeper; more profound. Something he's been denying himself of for a very long time, and in turn something that Sherlock has been denied by many.

When they pull apart Sherlock is breathless and a blush is colouring his cheeks. And in that moment, John Hamish Watson finds that he really doesn't want to fight this feeling anymore.


End file.
